


The three words

by bleedingrainbows



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Crossdressing, Explicit Language, Light Angst, M/M, Not Really Crack, Self-Esteem Issues, Superfamily, estabilished relationship - Freeform, sexual insinuation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6282994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleedingrainbows/pseuds/bleedingrainbows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The three magic words, one of which starts with an L...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The three words

**Author's Note:**

> I was dared to write a story with crack elements and not turn it into crack. So I even made it angsty. I believe it can be entertaining.

 

The only light inside the apartment came from the full moon, high on the sky, drawing the shapes of the furniture near the windows, shining the fog made of heavy dust where the sneezes will be made of glitter. The small apartment is made of just two rooms, then, there wouldn’t be many unrevealed shadows, since all the curtains were open and every corner was at least ghostly illuminated.

Silence is sort of abstract in New York, because there’s always a car engine somewhere, a honk in the end of every thought. Yet when the window was open from the outside, a quick shout rose as soon along with the heavy impact of Deadpool’s boots on the floor.

“Can we do this again? Can we? Say we can!” Wade’s voice was loud and oddly shrieky while he looked at Peter as he came inside the apartment through the same window.

“Shut up, Wade.” Peter said in a low volume and sat on the window, entering the place the same way he did.

“Now I’m wondering. Why didn’t you ever take me with you while you go all pew-pew-pew with the spidey web and the spidey jumps?” Wade imitated his hand gestures. “You just do that to impress the girls?”

“Why did we even go to that party in the first place?” Peter asked himself, exasperated, taking his mask off.

“Can we kiss upside down, too? Can I be Spider-man this time?”

“Have you snorted cocaine with Sebastian Shaw?” Peter asked, but Wade had jumped on the ceiling fan and seemed to be up to turn upside down to kiss him.

“Yep. Out of Dark Phoenix’s butthole. Did you know that they call her Jean _White_ nowadays?”

Peter stared at him with his jaw dropped for a moment. Wade was usually full with that sharp energy, those witty one-liners (and those that are not that witty) always on the tip of his tongue, talking about those subjects no one knew a thing about and that way of thinking out loud. But in that day he had been simply unbearable. He was entirely made of crude and gratuitous violence and really, really bad jokes. He knew Wade was more than that… he knew.

The younger just rolled his eyes and sighed, giving his back and walking to the other side of the small apartment, feeling trapped, caged.

“Hold on to that thought, I’ve got another good one about ‘snow’ and Emma Frost.” Wade turned his head to him, still while hanging upside down. But Peter’s shoulders were dropped while he opened the fridge and looked inside of it, more as if he waited for it to tell him what he wanted than actually searching for something. He ended up picking a beer.

“You’re not even allowed to drink yet.” Wade said as he got out of the fan and stood up again.

Peter leaned on the counter and opened the can.

“You know I can go to jail for this misconduct.”

Just glancing at Wade, he sips down the beer.

“Uh, bad boy much? It kinda turns me on.”

Wade pictured himself holding his waist. His hands cling to his narrow hips and his fingers fit on the perfect V of his hipbones. He pulls him gently, though firmly and steadily, towards himself, and the clothing is simply unbearable in between them. Wade kisses his ear and the younger’s sigh trembles in his throat. The perfect, gentle, velvety skin of his neck on his lips. Not a bruise, not a crack, not a wrinkle against his tongue. Just all the way a perfect young skin.

20 years old. The best ass in town. Son of Tony Stark and Steve Rogers. Little genius like dada one, righteous hero like dada two. Why is this boy still inside this crappy apartment with a fucked faced loser if not doing the Lana del Rey? The young and fresh Lolita with his red spandex, crazy in love with his gangsta, his daddy, his bad _daddypool_.

The dust was hovering like it waited for a wind. A wind of change. It would happen soon, Wade knew.

“It wasn’t that bad tonight, Pete.”

“Death count: 37.” Peter finally said something.

“Thirty of which I killed!” He raised his shoulders in a defensive behavior.

“I may have the slight impression that you’re are saying this is the advantage.”

“How could I know, Peter? I thought a yacht party would be a good idea, wouldn’t you?”

“Not if the name of the yacht was Hellfire!”

“You’re saying as if it was Hellfire Club itself there! It was a randomness. Just some villains, some ass-kicking…”

“And _thirty-seven deaths_!”

“And robots! There were fucking robots!” Wade laughed delighted and sat down on the counter in front of which Peter was leaning on “It was a bat-shit crazy fight in a nice way and you have to admit it. What a night!”

Peter rolled his eyes and left the can on the counter Wade was sitting on, but his eyes were clear even under the dim lights of the apartment. He wasn’t bothered. He was broken-hearted. He actually thought that after all… Wade could try not to banalize. He could…

Wade could see it in Peter’s eyes. The hope of the hero trying to fix the world and fix him, too. He shook his head.

_Oh, honey. I put the laughter in manslaughter._

Peter looked to the other side of the apartment, where there was the bed. The bed Wade made him look at most of the times they were on it; to the mattress, the pillows. Rewinding, that place was a mess of sweat, strength, desire and rage that would eventually go calmer and calmer like always, and like their first time was. Wade had been so patient and so careful no one could tell it was him. He kissed every spot of his skin. He hushed for him to keep his eyes closed and just then there could be heard the sound of clothes on the floor. The curtains were closed and there weren’t shapes, only lighter and darker shadows.

Wade then hisses for him to turn over, but even when Peter did, he just kissed him more. And more. Until Peter’s deaf by his own heart throbbing. Until Wade tasted every spot of him. When his thick, uneven, scarred skin is rubbing on the silky, soft one.

“I want to see you.” Peter hushed.

“No way you do.”

"Wade, I want you for…”

 _“_... _for who you are_. Quit it. Your good guy’s heart thinks you do. This is not a three-way with your conscience.”  He said by his ear. The growl on his throat is intense and takes over every sound, every breath, every siren and horn on the ground. “Actually, it’s better off very, very far away from this bed.”

Peter looks now at the bed, then, at the sheets they had messed so many times, but instead of a remembrance, he see cats. Five random, black-and-white, mixed cats. Five goddamn random cats.

“What are these cats doing here? Is this Alestaire’s shit again?”

Wade rolled his eyes.

“Don’t ask me, ask Shanderson.”

“Who is Shanderson?”

“It’s not a who, it’s more like a, uh, forget it.”

More of that not-really silence.

It was coming. This kind of thing doesn’t come under the rain in a dramatic night by the train station, it doesn’t happen always after a fight. Sometimes it just happens. It happens mainly after too many bloody bodies unnecessarily dropped. Too many looks of deception and indignation. Slowly carving in stone, day after day, the question “why are you even dating him?” and the answer is written in sand, and wind after wind it’s too hard to read.

And about sand, Wade knew that the first kiss is the turning of an hourglass. And one time the upper part will be empty. When there is too much blood and too much hatred, too much sickness and you can’t postpone forever the obvious.

Because all is cool when you don’t think about it, but you won’t _not think_ about it forever. You can only be young love with someone once. Just once with each person.

This is the time… when you are not a superhero. You’re not the most irresponsible person in the room and that is freedom. You’re not the wackiest or the clumsiest person in the world and that is relief. You can finally breathe.

No, you are not a superhero. In that one day, you’re just a boy who met an older guy crazier than you and you two hang out together until for some reason one day you are drunk as fuck and dressed as Black Cat inside his apartment, and you two are laughing your asses off. And nobody gives a shit. There’s just the two of you in the world, there’s just that apartment in entire New York.

Peter is in high heels and uses the rack as a pole for a dance and it all falls down with him along. Even drunk, his reflexes are fast enough for him not to fall, but why wouldn’t he? He just wanted to open-heartedly let go. The white wig falls off his head and there’s a fuckload of vodka inside their veins. Wade doesn't judges, not ever, he just has fun, and Peter looks at his eyes like he’s found something he didn’t know he was looking for. And they kiss for the first time still when Peter’s wearing a black mask around his eyes. Until Wade’s hand is inside his bra, and, and, wait, not like this… not so fast. Not with him.

This is… This is different.

 _Peter keeps you human, Wade._ Al said, some time, and he thought that the blind lady was shitting through her mouth until he noticed it was really hard to look into Peter’s eyes.

It was hard to look at them now as well.

“I’m a bit tired, Wade.” Not of villains in yachts, not of robots, not of cats. Tired.

“No bondage today, then? You promised with Octopus’ claw-like tentacles. I swear this time I won't sell the pics to the Daily Bugle.”

Peter could listen to Wade’s heart race. Fast.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Do you have a notebook with infinite pages to take note?”

“No. Right now.” He stepped close and reached out to take his mask off. “The yacht ride. Your behavior. What is wrong with you?”

_Peter makes you stop thinking about her. About Death._

Al simply just doesn’t shut the fuck up. As if he doesn’t have enough voices inside his head already.

Wade holds his wrist to stop him from touching his uniform or his face.

“I was thinking if this is the time where I’ll say it.”

“Say what?”

“The three magic words, one of which starts with an L...”

Peter waited. And sighed.

“Is it _open your legs_?” The younger tried the obvious.

_He believes in you. He likes you. He doesn’t think you’re despicable. He sees more in you._

The fucking old lady was like a guru or something.

 _“_ Shut up, Al.”

“What?” Peter asks, frowning.

Wade swallowed hard and the mask covered everything, his empty eyes, his painful smile. The problem was, she was right. That was exactly the problem.

“I was going to say _let's have chimichangas_ , but yours is the only better option there is.” Wade said right after. “You really knows my heart, lovey-dovey.” He pushed weakly his chin with his bent index finger.

“Good night, Wade.” He gave his back.

If they can just be young love once, they were beautiful. And he doesn’t know beautiful very much. He forgot beautiful. And he thanked Peter for showing him. Silently. Or as silently as possible in New York.

“Peter.”

The Spider-man sat down on the window, finishing putting his mask on.

“The words are _you should leave_.”

And again there was a mask covering. A mask not to show any of the eyes and what they expressed; not Peter’s, not Wade’s.

“ _Not like this_ , Deadpool.” He said before jumping off the window.

Wade twists a smirk.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
